


Skin Deep

by astoryaboutwar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, X-Men (Movies)
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, BAMF John is BAMF, But that's okay because John still loves you, Case Fic, M/M, Mutant, Peripheral Erik/Charles, Romance, Sherlock you're kind of an idiot, Superpowers, X-Men Crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astoryaboutwar/pseuds/astoryaboutwar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock/X-Men Crossover. Just because you're a Mutant doesn't mean you can't still be a freak. John Watson has been both his whole life. Until he met empath Sherlock Holmes, he never realised how lonely he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Good Men

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on prompt kink meme [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15253.html?thread=82186389#t82186389).

John Watson first met Sherlock Holmes through Mike Stamford, who had introduced John to the empathic detective on his first day at the Xavier Institute. It wasn’t that John resented his new partner, because he really didn’t; he just didn’t appreciate the way Stamford had so easily read his aura (or something like that, he wasn’t particularly sure or keen to be sure of the man’s powers) and deemed him a perfect fit for Sherlock.

In any case, it was all said and done, and the partnership was registered with the government in record time. Apparently, as one Sally Donovan confided in him one afternoon as she lifted a tonne of weights easily with her super-strength, Sherlock had dismissed and run out all his previous assigned partners, so John was really getting the shit end of the deal. John had shrugged non-committedly, unwilling to judge so arbitrarily. He had glanced down at his hand, thought back to his childhood, and soldiered on as he always did.

That didn’t mean getting acquainted with Sherlock was a piece of cake, though. The empath was notoriously elusive (clearly his powers helped in avoidance a great deal), and John had yet to see hide or hair of him since their initial meeting in the basement laboratory with Mike two weeks ago. He supposed it was almost serendipitous, really, because he was still trying to reorientate himself to settling down in a quasi-civilian life.

Most nights, John would still shoot up in bed, heart pounding and chest heaving, echoes of gunshots fading in his ears. He would clench his fists, calm his breathing, and completely fail to fall back asleep.

He liked it here at the Institute. It was mostly quiet, and judging eyes were nowhere to be found. After Afghanistan, after everything, quiet was more than welcome. Still, the inactivity was not kind to his soldier’s body, and the lack of strenuous physical activity made his injured shoulder ache and his limp considerably worsen.

The Institute was fairly busy for majority of the day as youngsters bustled around on their way to classes, and the chatter and laughter of youthful exuberance carried up to his room on the third floor. A small part of him envied the purpose of the students - they were young, with their entire lives stretching out ahead of them like a blank canvas. Mostly, he was silently thankful for the solitude he had been so generously granted.

John’s entry into the Xavier Institute could be similarly credited to Mike Stamford. Following his exit from the RAMC, John had drifted aimlessly for several months before a mixture of happenstance and luck threw him in the way of Stamford one early April morning. The aura-reader had taken a swift look at him, noted the “muted grey and intermittent navies” of his aura, and whisked him off to America to aid the Mutant Cause.

Honestly, John had been doubtful at first, but he knew Mike, and he had nothing better to do anyway. It was hard enough for a wounded, trembling soldier-surgeon to find a job, but a wounded, trembling soldier-surgeon-mutant? You could kiss any work opportunities goodbye. It was one of the reasons John had enlisted in the first place. In the Army, no one  paid too much heed if you were a mutant; they were all just glad you had their backs, even if several slurs and insults cropped up occasionally.

As he spent more time at the Institute, he began to align himself with their cause more and more. Mutants were increasingly accepted in society, yes, but they were still a far way off from being treated as full equals. Christ, in some countries, mutants couldn’t even _vote_. It was bad enough that the government had imposed a compulsory registration programme for all mutants a decade prior, but there were talks even now of segregated communities for “the safety of the general public”. What utter _shite_.

And that was where the Institute came in, Professor Xavier had explained. John had only met the legend himself once, on his first day here, but he had immense respect for him. Xavier had taken one look at John, extended a hand of acceptance and friendship, and had welcomed John into his fold without so much as a by-your-leave. The level of trust and camaraderie was breathtaking.

Xavier had outlined his vision to John: the education and befriending of the masses, such that fear and prejudice against the Mutant community would be gradually eroded, and the foiling of any inflammatory or violent action by Mutants against the general populace. The second part, the Professor had elaborated, was where John and a select team of Mutants would come in. Magneto had been quiet lately, the older man had said with a frown. Too quiet. Something, he was sure, was brewing, and they needed to stop him before a full-out war between Mutants and ordinary people was waged. John had immediately agreed and offered his services unconditionally.

Purpose. This was what the Institute gave him. When John was younger, before his powers had fully manifested and his parents treated him with wary caution, his mother had knelt down, took his tiny hand, and told him that everyone in the world was here for a _purpose_. The John of today wasn’t one for such sentimental or trite sayings, but something about the way Xavier had spoken that day unearthed that sliver of memory from the recesses of his mind. Maybe, he considered, purpose was what his life had been consistently lacking.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece in his bedroom. _Two o’clock_ , it proclaimed. John mentally shrugged. It was as good a time to finally hunt down and get to know Sherlock Holmes as any.

John wandered out of his room, and was momentarily struck by the muted wealth and opulence of the mansion. He chided himself; he had been here for slightly over a fortnight, and that was more than enough time to get used to his environs. Still, the luxury and old money that the estate gave off never failed to stun his working-class, blue-collar origins. He found himself wondering what his mum would have said, had she been able to see him now. After a brief moment, he banished the thought. Best to let the past stay there.

He passed dozens of people on his search for Sherlock, and was sidetracked for a while by a brawl between a youth who could manipulate water, and another who had what appeared to be an elastic body. He smiled a little at that. He would probably never get used to sights like this.

He stopped to ask passing individuals where he might find Sherlock Holmes four times, and was met by raised eyebrows on every occasion.

“Best steer clear, mate,” the first teen, a gangly youth who had really, really sharp teeth warned.

“Don’t bother,” said an invisible young woman (at least, John _assumed_ it was a young woman from her voice - he couldn’t see her face, only her clothes.)

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” chuckled a teacher who had previously been conversing with a pigeon on the windowsill.

“Are you _crazy?_ ” shrieked the last, an elderly lady who had hooves for feet.

The general response to his enquiries was almost enough to make John give up. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and pressed on. Some things, especially unpleasant things like this, needed to be gotten over with as soon as possible. He was keen to start going on missions, but that would only be possible, Xavier had told him, once John and his partner - Sherlock - had been given the green light by their Supervisor.

There were worse things, John eventually concluded when he was forty minutes into his search, than hunting down your elusive partner on a lovely afternoon. After he had searched what seemed to be every possible location above ground, John decided to venture into the labs hidden in the basement. That was where he hit the jackpot.

He stumbled across Sherlock in the same chemistry lab where they had first been introduced, and proceeded to mentally curse himself for not thinking of checking here sooner. He was pulled out of his self-recrimination by the wry voice of his new partner.

“Took you long enough,” said Sherlock as he handled some chemical or another in a long, thin burette. “I could feel your frustration from all the way down here.”

Sherlock spared him a dismissive once-over. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John’s shock must have been rather strong, because Sherlock grimaced immediately, his empathic receptors clearly sparking off. “You’re going to ask me how I know that,” he continued even as he sighed impatiently. “It’s quite obvious, really. Your haircut. Your posture. Your wound. Your PTSD. All signs point to a military background, and exposure to prolonged violent conflict. Therefore, a war of some sort. Seeing as you’re British, and Britain is currently only involved in two major military conflicts, the two being Afghanistan and Iraq, it’s all painfully obvious. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John cleared his throat. “Ah - Afghanistan.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock turned back to his experiment, clearly done with their conversation.

“Aren’t you going to even try to get to know me a little? We’re going to be partners, after all.” John wasn’t angry so much as he was slightly irked, but the man’s self-absorption really rankled.

Sherlock sighed, and rolled his eyes even as he continued with whatever it was that he was doing. “I don’t need to have a pointless conversation with you to know everything there is to know. You’re thirty-five, thirty-six. Recently discharged from military service due to the gunshot wound in your left shoulder. Your limp is evidently psychosomatic, and you joined the army to escape the alienation you felt being a mutant. You have a blue-collar background, attended a state school, and went on to a reputable university - but not Oxbridge. You don’t get along with your family. You have at least one older sibling; you’re not close.” He huffed impatiently. “Is that enough? Or would you like me to go into a detailed account of your daily routine too?”

Exasperated, annoyed, impressed and slightly amused, John shook his head.

Arching a haughty eyebrow, Sherlock closed his eyes for a split-second - John assumed he was getting an empathic reading on him - before snapping them back open. “Interesting,” the detective murmured. “You’re not angry.”

John shrugged. “Why would I be? What you said was spot-on, and it was pretty brilliant, what you just did.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up even further, and he stopped his experiment to face John fully. “That’s not what people usually say,” he conceded.

Curious, John couldn’t help but ask. “And what do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

Their chuckles went on for several long minutes. This moment, John would come to reflect later, was when he realised that this partnership was going to work _perfectly_ , and the last vestiges of his old life slipped away.

 

_____

 

If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes hated, it was being interrupted. Thus far, John Watson had interrupted his experiments twice. The first time, Sherlock conceded, was not the ex-Army doctor’s fault; Mike had all but barged in and proclaimed them ‘compatible’. Sherlock had afforded the discharged soldier little more than a cursory glance, too absorbed in his calculation of the boiling temperature of vitrous humour found in human eyeballs.

Still, that one glance had supplied him with more than enough information. Ex-military, medical professional, wounded in the war, likely trained in trauma surgery, classic British stoicism, uncomfortable with his power in his younger days. Boring.

His emotions were neither interesting nor different, running the typical gamut of geniality, friendliness, awkwardness, offense and ire, as most people were wont to experience when meeting Sherlock for the first time. Even if John Watson’s level of offense and ire were less acute than the majority of people Sherlock had interacted with in his lifetime, well, that was hardly _different_ enough to warrant much attention.

It wasn’t until his two fellow countrymen had departed that it occurred to Sherlock that he hadn’t been able to discern John Watson’s power. Most of the time, the process was laughably simple. Sherlock would take one look at an individual, use their emotions as a baseline, study their gestures and mannerisms, and immediately deduce what their power was. Take Mike, for example. The way the portly man constantly looked slightly _over_ and _around_ the people he interacted with was a dead giveaway; he was obviously an aura-reader.

But John Watson? Sherlock mentally reviewed their first encounter: left hand firmly clasped on his cane, upright military posture. Usual run of emotions. Steady right hand, but suffering from PTSD. Strength under pressure, then. Calmly studying the lab around him, eyes sweeping from side to side; observant and detailed, probably left-over from his Army training and time in the battlefield. But there were no tell-tale signs that screamed: _this is my power!_ John Watson had exhibited none of the typical indicators - he hadn’t held one hand at the ready as those who manipulated elements did, he hadn’t frowned slightly as those who were psionics or psychics were wont to do, he hadn’t held his body a little aloof from his surroundings, as teleporters and shapeshifters usually did.

Maybe this partnership would be more fruitful than the Institute’s previous attempts to shove him into one. He turned back to the man in question. “I play the violin at odd hours, and don’t speak for days on end. Will either of those be a problem?”

Sherlock could feel John’s amusement and rising excitement. “Do you play well?”

“So I’ve been told,” he allowed.

John nodded. “Then it’s fine. Just a note of caution - I, ah, I tend to have nightmares, and they can be quite...loud and violent. Will that bother you?”

John’s slight embarrassment was more than countered with a fresh wave of defiance. Good. Sherlock disliked meek, spineless men. He waved an impatient hand in dismissal of the notion.

Snatching up his scarf and coat from the nearby lab stool, he strode to the lab exit. “Well then, no use dallying any further. Come, John, we’ve to speak to Lestrade before the fun can start.”

 

_____

 

Sherlock Holmes was an odd one. A little disconcerting, sure, but mostly just odd. He was a right arrogant, cocksure bastard, but John couldn’t help but be drawn to him. Maybe, he considered, it was to do with the man’s almost inhuman beauty. John had always judged himself to be healthily bisexual, and so was hardly immune to the pale-skinned, sharp-lined, vaguely feline grace of his new partner. Still, the man was clearly not interested in anything other than his work, so John sighed and filed him under his mental box labelled _No Chance In Hell_.

The detective was something else entirely, really. As they wove through the Institute on their way to meet this Lestrade person, the crowds parted for Sherlock (and John, who was tagging behind) like the bloody Red Sea. It was almost impressive. En route, Sherlock exchanged curt nods with several teachers and staff that they encountered, but was completely dismissive of the admiring (and some not-so-admiring) looks thrown his way.

They ended up in a section of the Institute that John had never been in, somewhere in the West Wing of the enormous estate. Drawing up to a mahogany door with the embossed letters proclaiming it was _Division 221b_ , Sherlock swept in without bothering to knock.

“Lestrade,” he said in way of greeting. John sighed internally. Well, at least he wasn’t the only one Sherlock treated in that manner.

The salt-and-pepper haired, rather frazzled looking man behind a large oak desk glanced up and exhaled loudly. “Sherlock, what now? And who’s your new friend?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he made an impatient noise at the back of his throat. “Your level of competence is appalling. This is John Watson. Had you bothered to get your paperwork in order, you would know him to be the new member of your division, as well as my new partner.”

Lestrade startled almost comically. “ _Partner?_ You have a _partner_ now?” He sent John a grateful look. “Thank god. I was beginning to think we’d never be rid of you, Sherlock.” Extending a hand to John, they shook in welcome. “What did you do to get him to accept you, John? We’d all but given up. Anyhow, welcome to Division 221b; I’m your Supervisor.”

After exchanging the requisite pleasantries and greetings while an impatient Sherlock loitered behind, Lestrade pulled up a stack of thick binders, passing one to each of them. “We’ve had several apparent suicides these past few weeks. Autopsy showed traces of an unknown poison in the victims’ systems, but no sign of struggle or force used, so the authorities are ruling it as suicide for now. However, our intelligence has informed us that the victims are all unregistered Mutants - you know, those who managed to slip through the cracks in the government. We need you two to solve the case before any more details are leaked to the public and the Mutant community. Relations between our two races are bad enough as it is; we don’t need a host of targeted murders like these to make things worse. To date, we’ve had three -”

“Four,” Sherlock interrupted. “Four murders. The fourth is a Jennifer Wilson, murdered several hours ago. The report is in the The Times. Same poison, same MO.”

Too used to Sherlock’s surprises, Lestrade took it all in stride. “Four, then. We’ve had four victims so far. Let’s work to -” Lestrade glanced down at his wrist, and John noted that words had appeared, almost like magic ink, on the paler underside of his wrist before fading away. John surmised that that had something to do with Lestrade’s Mutant power.

“Lauriston Gardens,” Lestrade informed them, clearly having gotten hold of new information from his power of some sort. “The last victim - Jennifer Wilson - was found in Lauriston Gardens, London.” He levelled measured looks at them both. “Gentlemen. Ready for a short jaunt back to our lovely Motherland?”

Sherlock’s answering grin was whip-sharp.

 

_____

 

Lestrade led them to an adjacent room, stocked to the brim with whirring machinery and state-of-the-art technology. Gesturing to the equipment, he informed them that they could take whatever gadgets they might require, but was nonetheless unsurprised when Sherlock snorted derisively and swept out of the room, muttering that his own intellect was more useful that the entire room put together. John merely shrugged and trailed after Sherlock, grimacing apologetically on behalf of his partner.

They were handed clearance passes and directed to the debriefing room before they could be released. The debriefing room was a large, ruthlessly organised space with racks and racks of the iconic X-men suits hanging along a long wall. Metal tables, eerily reminiscent of those found in autopsy rooms, were placed in a scattered formation and littered with tools and appliances of various sorts.

Lestrade strode in moments after they arrived. “Molly? Where are you? I need you to suit these two up, we’ve got an urgent case to get to in London.”

Despite the fact that John had been among all kinds of Mutants - and was one himself - he still got shocked whenever those with powers of invisibility appeared out of thin air. His heartbeat jumped significantly when this Molly abruptly visualised five feet from them. John attempted to ignore the bemused glance Sherlock directed at him.

Molly was a thin, mousy-but-pretty young woman that John deemed to be in her late twenties. She was decked out in an X-suit, which she hurriedly covered with a dwarfing white lab coat.

“Sherlock, John, this is Molly Hooper, our resident suit expert and Mutant analyst. She’ll be suiting both of you up - yes, Sherlock, _even you_.” Lestrade held up a placating hand before Sherlock could protest. “It’s Standard Operational Procedure. If you don’t suit up, you don’t get the case.” The snap of Sherlock’s jaw as he shut it in annoyance was an audible click.

Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear in a rather nervous fashion, Molly took over from Lestrade. “Hi. So, umm, Sherlock, I’ve gotten your suit ready based on the specifications in your file.” She darted over to the rack of suits, skimming through several before nodding and pulling one out. “Here. It’s made of a custom fabric - flexible, waterproof, tear-proof, fire-resistant  and breathable. For your empathic abilities, I’ve modified the suit a little; I’ve made it _permeable_ as well - your file says you’re a tactile empath, so this won’t limit your sensing abilities like normal clothes. Of course, this feature is something you can activate whenever you choose - just think about the region of the suit you want to be permeable, and it’ll respond to your brainwaves - so that way, you won’t be overwhelmed or anything.”

Sherlock looked vaguely impressed at that. Sending the detective a timid smile, she handed the suit to him as she turned to John. “Right, John, your file doesn’t specify your abilities, so I couldn’t customise one for you. I can probably do it now if you give me ten minutes, but you have to...” She trailed off, glancing at him awkwardly. It wasn’t considered polite etiquette to ask a Mutant what their power was, and John disliked sharing that information with others.

His fingers briefly tightened on his cane before he smiled genially back at her. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be fine in a standard suit. I mean, it’s pretty much got everything covered, right? Waterproof. Fire-resistant. Tear-proof. Breathable. So yeah, I’ll just get one of those. No need for any special features.”

John could feel the speculative look Lestrade shot him, and the weight of Sherlock’s assessing gaze. He ignored them both. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his power - he had more than three decades to get comfortable with it, for god’s sake. Still, the _nature_ of his power made him somewhat of a freak even amongst Mutants, and the memory of revolted looks and cringing winces had made him guard his power zealously. Afghanistan was different. There, no one gave a damn how _creepy_ or _unnatural_ or _twisted_ his power was - they were just glad it saved their collective arses. But that didn’t mean his power was appreciated or looked upon with envy back in civilian society, even in the company of Mutants.

Molly nodded, heading off to the rack to pull out a suit in his size. He took it from her gratefully, sending her a small smile.

“Right, then, if we’re all set to go -” Lestrade gestured them over to him. “Your arms please, gentlemen.”

John shot him a guarded look of bewilderment. Lestrade chuckled at this, going on to elaborate. “Relax, John, I’m not trying to kill you or anything like that.” He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, tapping the underside of his wrist twice with a finger. _This is my power_ , the words that surfaced read. _I’ll be using it to communicate with you while you’re in London. It’s confidential and untraceable._ Grinning, he slid the sleeve back down.

“So, if you please?”

Tugging up their sleeves, John and Sherlock offered him their wrists. Lestrade tapped each of their wrists twice, and John felt a warm tingle at the back of his mind at the action. _Test_ , his wrist read after a brief moment. Checking over their wrists, Lestrade nodded.

“You’ll feel that same warm tingle whenever I send you a message. When that happens, check your wrist. If you want to communicate with me, tap your wrist twice, picture the Xavier Institute, and hold the entire text of what you want to say in your mind’s eye. Got it?”

John and Sherlock murmured their understanding, and tried it out at Lestrade’s behest. Satisfied, their Supervisor led them to the adjoining room, where a gangly youth of what John gauged to be no older than twenty waited.

“Guys, this is Peter - he’s the teleporter on duty today.”

Noting John’s expression of dawning realisation, Sherlock shot him a lightning-quick smile. “Why, John, did you think we were going to take a plane all the way back to London?”

John shook his head in amazement - thirty-five years old, and he was still surprised by his world on a near-daily basis.

“Peter here will take you to Lauriston Gardens. We’ve already got Anderson and Donovan on the scene, so rendezvous with them and they’ll take you through more of what we know.”

Sherlock’s face grew annoyed. “Anderson? You put an idiot like _Anderson_ on this case? Surely you’re joking, Lestrade. I can’t work with an idiot like him. His _face_ is the bane of my existence.”

Lestrade sighed, and ran a tired, long-suffering hand down his face. “No, Sherlock. I am _not_ joking. Look, it’s either you work with Anderson or you don’t come on board this case, alright? _Christ._ ”

John had to stifle his laughter upon seeing the aggravated and generally over-dramatic pique on Sherlock’s face. The man in question sent him a quelling glare.

“In any case, we’ve got five days on this before the press swoops down on our heads, so toe the deadline. Peter will return for you at oh-nine-hundred on Friday, unless you manage to solve it before that - then you just contact me. Are we clear on this?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes mutinously while John nodded, military training too ingrained to do anything else.

 

_____

 

The teleport had left John queasy, Sherlock knew. The man’s mind was boiling over with nausea. Pushing that aside, Sherlock focused on activating the permeable cloth on the arms of his X-suit. Upon their arrival, an officer with the New Scotland Yard had ushered them into the dilapidated building and up the stairs.

Sherlock seethed. He could _feel_ the sickening emotions of Anderson and Donovan three flights up, swirling with petty feelings and other useless gripes. The lingering trace of fear and horror and terror from the deceased victim was acute; a stark layer blanketing the emotions of others in the vicinity.

He grimaced, intently taking in deep breaths on his climb up. As much as Sherlock liked and was thankful for his abilities, the occasional unwieldiness of it had made him healthily cautious. The harsh memories of collapsing in fits in the middle of overwhelming crowds were fresh in his mind, and one too many painful brushes with the sheer emotional intensity that choked him when skin-to-skin contact was initiated had taught him to be safe in his aloofness and distance.

Flexing a suit-covered hand, he drew up onto the third floor landing where the roiling emotions of leftover death and pain were the strongest. Sweeping past Anderson and Donovan without bothering with a greeting, he vaguely registered the offensive word and disdainful snort from the pair.

He could _feel_ the killer. Activating the permeable cloth on the hands of his X-suit, he held his hands up in front of him, facing the prone body of Jennifer Wilson on the ground. _Excitement. Thrill. Glee_. Oh, this was certainly no suicide. Beneath the killer’s emotions, Jennifer Wilson’s fear and terror was sharp.

He sensed John draw up behind him in the room. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” He gestured towards the body. “Go ahead, tell me what you can deduce from her.”

John knelt down beside the corpse, emotions steady and deep. Sherlock was almost distracted by it, and frowned in response to his mind’s disobedience. He never got sidetracked by spectator emotions during a case. Shaking his head to clear it, he closed his eyes as he waded deeper into the emotion-laden ocean that was this room.

“Well, the main cause of death was asphyxiation. She choked on her own spit. She’s been dead for - I’d put the estimate at seven, eight hours ago. No signs of struggle, no evident foul play, except for -” John leaned towards the body, sniffing it. “Faint traces of poison. Nothing we don’t already know.”

As Sherlock sifted through the maelstrom of emotions, one stood out. Panic. But no - it wasn’t Jennifer Wilson’s. Why? Why would the killer, who had been delighting entirely in his kill, suddenly panic? Opening his eyes, he circled the corpse several times.

“Married, had multiple affairs, well-heeled. Mud splashes on her stockings - so not from London. Didn’t know her killer. Underside of collar, damp; had been out in the rain. From Cardiff, then.”

He snapped his fingers as the answer crystallised in his mind. “Anderson! Where’s the suitcase?”

“What suitcase? There wasn’t any -” Sherlock bit off an angry shout.

“ _Of course_ there was a suitcase, you imbecile. Look at the mud splashes on her stockings! It clearly came from something she was rolling behind her as she walked - ergo, a _suitcase_. Where is it? Surely even someone of your pathetic competence would be able to locate a hot pink suitcase?”

Anderson flushed a disturbing shade of puce, clearly livid. “Listen here, Holmes. My power lets me identify _every single material and element_ that is in this building, and there is no trace of a suitcase here now. So why don’t you -”

Sherlock was out of the room before Anderson could finish his tirade. _Of course,_ Sherlock thought. The panic. That was why the killer panicked for a brief moment. He still had the suitcase, which, if found, could be traced back to him, so he dumped it nearby.

Oh, this was _brilliant_.

The game, as they say, was _on_.

 

_____

 

John’s first encounter with Mycroft Holmes was like a scene lifted from a bad spy movie.

John had watched Sherlock bound out of the room at Lauriston Gardens, disappearing to god-knows-where. By the time John had made it back down the three torturous flights of stairs, Sherlock had long run off in pursuit of some clue or another. He eyed the cane in his left hand acidly.

He ignored the pitying looks directed his way, and shuffled out onto the street outside. Donovan had seen him, and had come up to give him a few words of ‘friendly’ advice.

“Steer clear of the freak,” she had warned. “He’s crazy. Seriously, he’s a real sociopath. He doesn’t feel anything or care for anyone. You know his empathic powers? I reckon he feels everyone else’s emotions because he has none of his own. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll avoid him. Mark my words, one day we’re going to find bodies that Sherlock Holmes put there.”

John supposed Donovan meant well, but the vitriol in her voice had all but eclipsed any inkling of good intention it might have contained. Maybe Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the most emotionally connected person, but that didn’t give anyone the right to judge him for it. John thought about Sherlock’s rapier-sharp wit and diamond-brilliance before dismissing Donovan’s ‘advice’ entirely.

But, well, that was all in the past - inasmuch as several hours ago could be classified as ‘in the past’, anyway. John had been promptly forced into a black sedan by way of CCTV cameras that tracked his every movement, phones that rang whenever he approached them, and threats made over said phones. He had been taken to a deserted warehouse, where a sinister umbrella-wielding figure waited in the shadows at one end.

“Please, Doctor Watson, have a seat. I’m sure your leg must be aching.” Pointing at the lone chair using his umbrella, the sharply-dressed man with a public-school drawl arched an imperious brow.

“No, thanks. I’d prefer to stand.”

The man pinned him with a calculating gaze. “What are your intentions regarding Sherlock Holmes?”

John refused to answer, even as he mentally reassessed everything he knew about Sherlock. That detective, John sighed, certainly ran in interesting circles, if this was anything to go by.

“Your obstinacy is very brave, Doctor Watson. Then again, I’ve always found bravery to be a kind word for stupidity. Let me restructure and contextualise the question for you: up till two weeks ago, you were an aimless ex-Army doctor on a pension, listlessly living in London. You ran into Mike Stamford, an old friend of yours, one morning, and he brought you to the Xavier Institute in America, partnered you with Sherlock, and you obediently acquiesced throughout. Let me embellish what you know of Sherlock: you are the third Mutant they have attempted to partner him with, and the only one willing to enter the partnership. It cannot be due to his, ah, _unique_ personality. So what are your intentions regarding Sherlock Holmes?”

“He’s just my new partner. That’s all there is to it.”

His response was met with an imperiously curious look. “I see.” A slender, almost skeletal finger tapped the handle of his umbrella once. “How interesting.”

“What if I were to offer you certain _compensations_ for information on Sherlock Holmes? For updates on his whereabouts and activities, I would pay you handsomely.”

“Forget it. I don’t need your money.”

A condescending smile graced the man’s lips. “You’re very loyal very quickly. I wonder, what has Sherlock Holmes done to deserve such loyalty?”

“It’s not that,” John found himself immediately protesting. “I’m just not interested in your offer.”

Raised eyebrows again. “Some would equate that to loyalty.” Glancing at his wristwatch, the man tapped the floor twice with his umbrella in a gesture that was vaguely symbolic. “I think we’re done here. Thank you, Doctor Watson. It was a pleasure.” He waved a hand towards the black sedan parked behind them. “The driver will send you to your residence.”

It was almost surreal. A shady meeting in an abandoned warehouse, a kidnapping, a mysterious black car. John was half-expecting someone to yell _cut!_ at any minute now. As he turned away to head to the car, curiosity got the better of him.

“Who are you?”

The answering smirk was slow and sly. “An interested party. For your sake, let’s just say that I’m...Sherlock Holmes’s _archenemy_.”

John boarded the car with what must have been an incredulous expression on his face, too gobsmacked by the entire encounter to be afraid.

When he looked down at his hand, the tremors had stopped. He wondered what that meant, and what that said about him as a person, if flying in the face of danger made him feel more exhilarated than he’d felt in _months_.

 

_____

 

A suicidal text message, a cab-chase, one frantic city-wide search and a shooting later, John Watson was having the time of his life. He hadn’t even been able to summon up the guilt he knew he _should_ feel at having taken another man’s life, but as he reasoned, this was one murder that would have saved more lives than just the one.

When John stumbled into the building opposite the one Sherlock was being held hostage in and saw that he was about to take the pill, the first thing he had felt was a choking, acute fear. Following that intense burst of emotion that visibly startled Sherlock even from a building across, John had slipped into the militarised, ingrained part of his brain that had been honed by years of training.

The room John was in contained multiple stainless steel chairs, which he did not hesitate to make use of. Yanking the leg off the nearest chair, he absorbed the steel into his palm, transmuting it into a gun that was moulded onto the end of his right hand. Bones, flesh and metal melded together into the deadly form of a Browning L9A1. Transmuting bullets in his other hand, he transferred the moulded bullets into the gun his hand had transformed into. He took aim and fired, the shot loud and ringing in his ears.

He was out of the room before Jefferson Hope’s body even hit the floor. On his way to the building’s exit, he transmuted the steel he had absorbed back into its pure form, and disposed of the lump of metal in a bin, wiping any prints off it. Even if the police found the metal piece, there would be no connection to him.

He was going to punch Sherlock, that reckless berk.

 

_____

 

“You’re looking for someone’s who experienced in dealing with handguns. Steady, graceful under pressure. An expert marksman. Ex-military, probably a medical man, given the steadiness of -” Sherlock caught sight of John, who was surreptitiously loitering near several patrol cars, looking for all the world as if he had innocently stumbled onto this crime scene.

Sherlock saw the single flex John gave his left hand, and catalogued the way his stance was just shy of restful. That was when he _knew_.

“You know what? Forget everything I just said. I’m in shock.” He waved an indignant Lestrade away as he pointed to the garish orange _thing_ some paramedic had pressed upon him. “Look, they gave me a blanket and everything.”

Sherlock drew up in front of John. “They never managed to find the bullet.”

The corner of John’s mouth quirked upwards minutely. “Really? Shame, guess the sniper’s going to go unpunished, then.”

“Well, he did save my life, so I owe him a measure of thanks - even if he did kill someone.”

John choked back laughter. “I’m sure he’d be more than welcome. And honestly, that was one awful cabbie.”

Sherlock turned to face John fully, and looked at the nondescript man in front of him in an entirely new light. John’s emotions were deliciously steady and comforting, a veritable port in a rolling storm. John had killed for him. John had _saved his life_. How could he have gotten it so wrong? John was anything but boring. His powers still remained an enigma, yes - but that was not a concern, because Sherlock was sure he would figure it out sooner or later. It didn’t matter. As it was, John Watson was _fascinating_.

“He was, wasn’t he?” Sherlock agreed. “The _worst_ cabbie.”

Laughter, Sherlock found, was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

 

**TBC**

 


	2. As We Walk into the Dark (Your Shadow Takes My Hand)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Words are loaded pistols."  
>  \- Jean-Paul Sartre_

For all that the great Sherlock Holmes claimed that he saw and knew everything, John was certain he often missed out several salient points. He couldn’t blame the man - mutant gene or not, he was only human. Just because Sherlock saw, deduced and therefore knew a lot more than the average person (or just about every person John knew), it hardly meant that he saw _everything_ entirely.  
  
Two days had passed following the successful close of what had been their first case, and something about the way it almost seemed too easy made alarm bells at the back of John’s mind ring. He couldn’t put a finger on it - everything seemed a little too neat, a little too cut-and-dried (or as cut-and-dried as serial murders could be, anyway) for it to be decisively over. Cynically, he mused if he was looking for trouble where there was none.  
  
Still. All four victims had been Mutants, but none of them had appeared to use their powers to defend themselves in any capacity. To the Institute’s knowledge, Jefferson Hope had been an ordinary human - surely at least _one_ of his Mutant victims would have tried to take advantage of Hope’s handicap? John wondered what Sherlock thought about this. He was sure that the detective had mulled over this himself, but his partner was not the most sharing of people.  
  
It didn’t help that Sherlock was being especially tight-lipped about what had transpired between Hope and him in the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. “Oh, we conversed and arrived at a mutual understanding,” he would say, brushing off any further queries into the matter. The empath was infuriating and wholly perplexing.  
  
John wandered around his room, alternating between flexing the fingers on his left hand and rolling his shoulder. Even since he had been wounded in the war, any split-second transmutation that he initiated in his left hand left it tingling and occasionally aching long after. His physiotherapist had recommended consistent small transmutations to ease his body back into the pattern of transformation.  
  
He sighed, a long and hard exhale that emptied his lungs, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Sitting down at the foot of the double bed, he held his left hand out before him, studying the lines and ridges of the worn limb. He noted the calloused digits, the dry palm, the tired back. Glancing at the cup of coffee he had abandoned on the desk several hours ago, he abruptly decided to _fuck it all_. He had to practice, so why not?  
  
Slowly, painfully, and agonizingly, his left hand transmuted into the smooth cylinder of a cup, bones and flesh shifting and rearranging at his will. When complete, he studied the cup for flaws. Tapping it several times, the resounding _tink_ he got in response was satisfactory. The cup his hand had transmuted into was a pale ivory; comprised of what was previously the bones of his left hand. He could have formed a glass-bone hybrid cup, but that would have required him to actually stand and root around for an object made of glass - the concept of _equivalent exchange_ and all that - and he was too lazy to move from his spot on the bed. That being said, he rarely transmuted objects out of pure bone - the material chipped easily and was surprisingly brittle. He preferred to work with steel, or titanium if he could get it.  
  
Jefferson Hope and his four victims weighed heavily on his mind. Mind you, he wasn’t sad over Hope’s death, _God no_ , but the four mutant victims...what a waste. An utter, _fucking_ waste. It had nothing to do with the fact that Hope was an ordinary human; even if he had been a mutant, John wouldn’t have given a damn that a killer died. The loss of four innocent lives grated.  
  
Afghanistan had taught him that his powers could be used for _good_ , for a nobler purpose that was larger than himself. It had shown him that human life was a fragile, fickle thing - that men lived and died at the errant whims of chance and luck. For every man he had managed to save, five more died because he couldn’t get to them in time, couldn’t get the necessary supplies, couldn’t do _enough_. There was enough death in the world without murderers like Jefferson Hope adding to the tally.  
  
He shifted the cup back into the shape of his hand, flexing and curling his fingers as the ache that came with rearranging bones set in. He stood up, moved to the window, and stared out onto the rolling lawns that surrounded the Xavier Institute on all four sides. Students frolicked and mingled on the parts closer to the towering estate, and in the distance, John could make out a gargantuan satellite dish - the site of the famous _Cerebro_.  
  
He wondered what his life would have been like if he hadn’t stumbled upon Mike nearly three weeks ago. Dull. Meaningless. _Useless_. Even if John wasn’t half as brilliant as Sherlock, here he could still make a difference. He found himself considering how Sherlock would react if he revealed his power to him. Revolted was a possibility, but from what he knew of the empath, it was more likely that he’d be fascinated and primed to dissect him and study his biological make-up. John was keen on neither.  
  
He loved his power; he really did. It was useful. Practical. Handy. Hell, with it John had _saved lives_ \- when scalpels or medical equipment couldn’t get to his patients fast enough on the treacherous battlefield, he had transmuted his hands into whatever tool he required at the time. But just because it was a nifty power didn’t mean it was appreciated. The transmutation process was rather disturbing to watch, John conceded in all honesty. When he had first transmuted in the Army, his unit had been horrified and had given him a wide berth until he shifted his hand into an AK-47 during an ambush a month later and saved all of their arses.  
  
It was easy for people to say they were fine with his power. The word itself - _transmutation_ \- hardly sounded as _creepy_ or _disgusting_ as the actual thing, as he had been told by more than one horrified soul, some of which had even been Mutants themselves. His parents had tried to understand, had tried their best to love and care for the young mutant boy who transmuted and contorted and shifted into all sorts of forms that were _beyond human_. They tried their best, and John would always be thankful to them for that, even if the quiet, late-night arguments and rows over whose fault it was that a normal, ordinary family like the Watsons could produce such a freak for a child were a lot less quiet than his parents thought.  
  
“Your maudlin thoughts have the most annoying effect,” came Sherlock from behind him. “I cut myself by accident because your emotions nearly knocked me off my feet.”  
  
John startled, sending up a quick word of thanks that he had the mind to transmute his hand back to its original form earlier. “Oh,” he sputtered out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise they were that strong.”  
  
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, plopping himself down onto the bed even as he continued to contemplate John with his quicksilver eyes. “No matter. I used the blood from the wound to test the efficiency of the new autoclave.”  
  
“How did you manage to feel my emotions when you were all the way in the basement, anyway?” John wondered, mind floundering at the thought of the sheer power that Sherlock must possess to have that sort of range.  
  
“Class Five on the Mactaggert Scale,” was the blasé response.  
  
John gaped. “Class Five? God, Sherlock, do you know how rare that is? There are, oh, slightly over a hundred _worldwide_. How can you be so - so _unaffected_ about it?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Whether I’m blasé or squealing like a schoolgirl over a power I was born with doesn’t change anything. I don’t see the need for useless displays.” He steepled his fingers under his chin and tipped his head back against the pillows. “But all of that isn’t the point.”  
  
John seated himself on the chair at the desk, resigning himself to being subjected to another of Sherlock’s lengthy rants. “You, John," he continued. "I’m here to talk about _you_.”  
  
Something about the way Sherlock phrased the sentence made the hairs on the nape of John’s neck rise in trepidation. “Me? Sherlock, you can’t be _that_ bored. I’m sure Lestrade will give you a case if you bother him enough.”  
  
“You’re trying to avoid this conversation with me. You’re feeling anxious, agitated and slightly worried, with a little curiosity thrown in. Clearly, you have an inkling of what the topic might be. You’re correct.”  
  
“What, you’re here to discuss last night’s game?” John’s attempt at humour fell flat.  
  
Piercing grey eyes snapped open. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse, John. It doesn’t suit you.”  
   
“Come on, Sherlock, I really -” he was cut off by an impatient snort.  
  
“You intentionally sidestepped Molly’s question about your powers three days ago. The section in your file where you were supposed to list your abilities was left blank. You chose to shoot Hope with a gun rather than use your powers.”  
  
Sherlock sat up, gaze intently focused on John. “Your power is something you’re not proud of. Likely, you’ve been at the receiving end of numerous slurs and insults because of it, but more so than the typical Mutant; everyone here has encountered bigoted ordinary folk before. So no, your power is something one step further. Physical, then. Something visually repulsive to the ordinary person, or you wouldn’t have been shunned quite so much. Yet beyond the bullet scar on your left shoulder and various smaller ones from the expected injuries one can expect to suffer as a soldier - shrapnel cuts and the like - there are no physical malformations or deformities on your person.”  
  
John gaped. “How do you even know whether I have -”  
  
“We share a bathroom. Small enclosed spaces carry lingering traces of emotions and fleeting thoughts for longer periods. It’s hardly my fault that you feel and think so loudly that the walls practically reverberate with it. Anyway, I pulled your file, remember?”  
  
Exhaling loudly, John attempted to reign in his anger with his partner. They were only three days (he discounted the two-week disappearing act of Sherlock’s) into their partnership, and it wouldn’t do for him to murder his partner _yet_. Too agitated to sit for any longer, he stood.  
  
“Sherlock,” he bit out through gritted teeth. “There’s this thing - you may have heard of it - it’s called _privacy_. Generally, it’s considered polite to give your partner some of that.”  
  
The Mutant in question looked genuinely perplexed, expression almost as if to say, _is that really how ordinary, normal, boring brains work?_  
  
“ _Privacy?_ John, who needs _privacy?_ Privacy’s boring. Politeness is boring. Social norms are boring. And if you were truly upset, you’d have punched me instead of merely admonishing my apparent faux pas. So really, I don’t see what the problem is here. You’re clearly overreacting.”  
  
Sherlock ploughed on. “In any case, you’ve attempted to neatly sidestep my original line of questioning again.” He dismissed John’s fumble for an appropriate response with a quick jerk of his head. “No, no, I don’t need you to verify any of the statements I made about your power earlier. I know I’m right. Your facial expressions, body language and emotions are revealing enough.”  
  
“I’m not going to tell you -”  
  
The detective looked positively horrified at this. “Of course you’re not going to tell me what your power is. That’d defeat the whole point of the game, wouldn’t it? That would be _boring_. I just needed to read your baseline responses to my deductions.” He sighed, noting John’s clenched jaw and tightened fists. “You’re going to continue being overdramatic about this, aren’t you.”  
  
Standing, he drew his coat around him. “Save your sulking for later, will you? In five seconds, Lestrade’s going to walk through the door with a new case, and it would be terribly inconvenient if you persisted in your hissy fit.”  
  
John didn’t have time to formulate a reply. Sherlock, damned bastard that he was, was right as usual. Lestrade strode through the double doors framing the bedroom, carrying two thick binders in hand. The Supervisor took one look at Sherlock’s insouciant gaze and nonchalant stance, turned to glance at John’s livid expression and balled fists, and sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly.  
  
“So, John,” Lestrade began. “When would you like to transfer out? I must say I’m not surprised - I’m actually glad you’ve managed to last this long. One case is better than none. You’ve been a great help to us by keeping Sherlock in line for a bit.”  
  
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened as he darted a look at John. “He’s not -” He quietened at John’s glare.  
  
“What do you mean? I’m not planning to transfer,” John picked up. “Just because Sherlock’s being a prick doesn’t mean I’m going to hightail it out of here.” He sent Sherlock an indecipherable look. “We’re not finished - not by a long shot.”  
  
 _Agitation. Anger. Excitement. Thrill. Faint arousal._ Sherlock could feel them all; all of John’s roiling, curling emotions that wafted out, thick and heady like the finest aged wine. It was intoxicating.  
  
Lestrade let out a low whistle of admiration. “You’re a very brave man, John Watson. I wish you all the luck in the world.” Giving Sherlock a brief once-over, he turned back to John. “You’ll be needing it.” Crisis temporarily averted for him, Lestrade walked over to both of them, handing them the binders.  
  
“The complete analysis of the bodies of the four victims from the previous case have come in. The poison was found to be harmless to ordinary humans. It only acts on the X-gene that all mutants possess, effectively destroying it and killing our victims in the process. Because we don’t know where it came from or who manufactured it, we can’t tell if it’s a prototype of some sort by a company or a home-made drug. The governments of both Britain and America _appear_ not to have any knowledge of the possibility of such a poison existing, but I wouldn’t put too much faith in what they say. As it is, they’d be more than happy to get rid of us if they could.”  
  
Lestrade settled onto the chair at the desk. “Sherlock, John - I don’t have to tell you how important it is that you find out who is doing this. We can’t risk something like this going public. Tensions between our two groups are at the tipping point right now, and a drug that is only fatal to Mutants is going to put the icing on the cake for a lot of people in the anti-Mutant camp. We’ve had word that the Al-Qaeda, Russian mafiya, Japanese yakuza and Chinese triads are looking into developing their own formula for a poison like that. If they get wind that it already exists, they will stop at nothing to get their hands on it. And if an ordinary cabbie had access to it, what more of the organised crime units of the world?” He exhaled loudly.  
  
He turned to Sherlock, gaze solemn. “Look, Sherlock, I know you’re not one to be motivated by how much good a case can bring, but this? This is not just about a noble cause, or some higher moral bullshit. This is _life or death_ for us. _All_ of us. Lord knows governments have been clamping down harder and harder on our community these few years. This drug will only give them further impetus to wipe us all out, or to refine it such that they can suppress and _control_ us like damned puppets to send into fucking wars. Magneto and his gang are roaring to declare all-out war against humans, and news of this will provide them with a fresh wave of supporters.”  
  
John flipped through his file, medical eyes scanning through the jargon to pick out the salient points before nodding decisively. “We’ll take the case.”  
  
“Will we?” Sherlock’s left brow arched, expression haughty and imperious. “I wasn’t aware that you made decisions for us now.”  
  
“Don’t be such a _child_ , Sherlock. Think of someone else other than yourself for a change, will you? Mutants will _die_ if we don’t do this. So you can go screw yourself if you don’t want to help.” Turning to Lestrade, he nodded again. “I’m in. For what it’s worth, you have my help.”  
  
Grey eyes clashed with cinder-brown ones, weighing and measuring. Sherlock leaned in, invading John’s personal space. “I’d like to see you try and fail without me.”  
  
“Oh, no, no - that’s not how we’re going to play this.” John shoved Sherlock back hard, with enough force that the taller Mutant had to fall back a step. “You like a challenge, don’t you, Sherlock?”  
  
John’s smile was flinty and cutting. “The duration of the case. That’s how long you have to figure out my power before I tell you and _ruin all your fun_. If you manage to crack it, I’m at your beck and call for a whole month. Tea, phone, texting, whatever - I’ll do them all without complaint. I’ll let you examine and study my power to your heart’s content. But if you can’t?”  
  
He shot a glance at Lestrade, who was watching with bemused interest. “If you can’t, then you’ll accept any and all cases thrown at you for three months following the close of this case.”  
  
Lestrade glanced down at his wrist as inky words began to swirl and form. Grimacing, he interrupted them. “Gentlemen, I’ll leave you to settle this little, ah, _dispute_ among yourselves. Report back to me at fourteen-hundred hours.” He wandered out of the room, shutting the door behind him.  
  
“Oh, John,” Sherlock said, voice silky and low, magnified with their proximity. “So stupid and foolish and _noble_.” He placed a hand on John’s chest, smirking at the way the heartbeat beneath his fingers sped up. He lowered his head, close to John’s ear. “You’re aroused, you know. I can feel it. It’s so... _strong_.” His hand wandered lower, ghosting across the hard plane of John’s abdomen. “Have you thought about what I’m going to make you do during that entire month when you’re my slave? What I’m going to do to you?”  
  
John’s breath hitched. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Sherlock was one smooth and devious bastard. For all he failed to understand about emotions, no one manipulated it better than a tactile empath. _Fuck_. He should have known what he was getting himself into when he started this little dance of theirs.  
  
Sherlock’s hand slipped lower, dangerously lower. “ _Of course_ you have. Because you know, don’t you? It’s only a matter of time. I’m going to win.” A nip to John’s earlobe had him biting back a gasp. Sherlock’s smirk widened. “I _always_ win.”  
  
John arrested Sherlock’s hand at the cuff just as it reached his belt buckle. “Well then,” he managed to get out through his gritted teeth. “What was it that you said before?” He nudged the glove Sherlock was wearing on his hand up an inch, enough to expose the fragile skin on the underside of his wrist.  
  
He stroked a thumb against the pale skin, felt Sherlock shudder and gasp. Touching a tactile empath was an overwhelming experience for them, John knew. He viciously delighted in it, revelling in the knowledge that he was the one who could make the great Sherlock Holmes tremble and unravel.  
  
Bringing Sherlock’s hand up, he pressed a fleeting kiss to the skin on his wrist before dropping the limb.  
  
"You and I," he breathed. “The game is on.”

 

 

**TBC**

 


	3. The Hours Pass (The Minutes Follow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"A good friend will always stab you in the front."  
>  \- Oscar Wilde_

John could feel the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze on him. It was a potent force, almost tangible and touchable. He focused on keeping his breathing even, but was well aware that he failed to keep his _excitementthrillarousal_ under control when the empath smirked and tugged his gaze away.

“ - the mother,” Sherlock continued, his deep baritone a bored drawl as he lounged around Lestrade’s office like a huge, crime-solving, culprit-identifying lizard. “Look at her fingernails. The nails of her second, third and fourth fingers on both hands are chipped and worn, yet the polish and care given to the thumbs and little fingers clearly show that she goes for manicures often. Ergo, she used her nails to pry something open - a box, in all likelihood. The box containing the jewellery. So there. There’s your thief, Lestrade.”

Flopping sulkily onto the priceless Victorian sofa in the office, Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Just how incompetent is your division?” he mused rhetorically, ignoring the glares shot his way by members nearby.

“You’re in my division, you know,” the Supervisor remarked wryly, without missing a beat.

“I _consult_ for your division,” Sherlock corrected, sounding for all the world like a petulant child. “Technically, I consult for the entire Institute, but you’re the least idiotic.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, even as he continued with whatever paperwork he was trying to complete. “Yes, thank you, we’re all so very grateful.” Brandishing his pen at Sherlock and John, he pointed to the doorway. “Now _get out._ I’m busy.”

Chuckling, John dragged Sherlock out of Division 221b’s offices by the wrist, the corner of his lips quirking upwards at the sound of Sherlock’s hitched breath on the contact even through his coat and dress shirt.

Once they were out in the hallway, he let go of Sherlock. The empath watched him in an assessing manner, slate grey eyes narrowed in his observation. Raising an elegant hand to rub at where John had held his wrist, Sherlock cocked his head slightly to side, even as his eyes remained locked on John’s.

“You’re uncomfortable with touching me,” he said at length. “You’ve no doubt heard of all those horror stories surrounding overwhelmed tactile empaths, and you’re worried that initiating physical contact with me might trigger something.” He shifted closer to John, face mere inches away. “But that’s not all - no, you _like_ knowing that I let you touch me. That I let you put your fingers on my bare skin. You delight in the fact that in that brief moment, your emotions are all I can feel.”

John exhaled softly, keeping his gaze steady. He tried not to shiver as Sherlock’s breath ghosted over his skin, a weak imitation of a lover’s caress.

“I wonder,” Sherlock whispered, mouth a scant distance from John’s ear. “How long can you keep this up? Your body is _begging_ for my touch. How long until your power shows itself, John?” He raised a tapered finger, holding it centimetres from John’s lips. “No, don’t answer.”

John’s breathing was erratic, pulse hammering away in his chest. God, Sherlock was _good_ , a bloody master at this game. But he couldn’t afford to lose, John reminded himself. It was more than a month of servitude if he lost at this point. It was a battle of wills, of sexual tension, of pride, of _everything._

“Soon,” Sherlock promised. “You’re going to slip up _soon_.”

Pulling away, Sherlock sauntered over to the stairwell. “I’ll be waiting,” he called over his shoulder.

John watched him leave, and wondered why it felt as if he was already losing when the game had barely begun.

 

_____

 

 

“You think you’re a _freak_ \- an aberration even amongst Mutants.”

John startled, almost dropping the leather-bound _Historie of Magicks, Powers, and Abilities_ that he had been perusing in the Institute’s cavernous library. Whirling around, his heartbeat calmed down slightly after taking in the sight of the Professor gliding in silently in his wheelchair.

He forced a smile to his lips. “Well, it’s not so much a matter of _thinking_ it as much as it is _knowing._ ” John doesn’t bother asking how Xavier knows - the psionic knows all and sees all, and does so with such benevolence and wisdom that John cannot bring himself to be upset about having his secret revealed to him in this manner.

Xavier’s omniscient gaze rested on John’s; a comforting weight, like an anchor in a storm. “Knowing something is built on a belief; belief is built on thought. Someone put those thoughts into your head, and you’ve grown to believe them.” Xavier tutted, and for a brief moment, John felt like a schoolboy being gently admonished by the headmaster. “Unwise, John. Patently unwise. Thoughts are fickle things - believe me, I know all about them.”

John cracked a smile at the elder Mutant’s good-humoured self-deprecation. Xavier glided closer, holding up an upturned palm. After a short moment of hesitation, John took it. “Oh, John,” the Professor sighed. “If it’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of all these decades, it’s that you should never question who you are and what you have.” He broadly gestured to the sprawling library with a sweeping movement of his hand. “Just because your abilities are undocumented doesn’t mean that you are any more of a ‘freak’ than the rest of us.”

As Xavier moved to gesture towards the low-slung leather chairs surrounding them, John took his cue and sat down. “I know it’s hard,” the Professor continued, eyes wise and knowing. “But you must try to be _proud_ of your power. It is magnificent. We - that is to say, all of us without your power - merely manipulate the surroundings. Air, fire, water, earth, thoughts, feelings - all these things are present, and we are simply granted the ability to control them. But _you,_ John, you create something new from them.”

Xavier lifted a metal paperweight from a reading table, shaped like an owl in flight. “You can take this, and make it a part of yourself even as you forge something new and beautiful from it.” He offered the paperweight to John, nudging his hand with it. “Go on. Don’t be ashamed.”

John was hesitant, unused to demonstrating his abilities in the presence of others unless under heavy duress. He took the silver owl from Xavier, palming it thoughtfully for a long moment before visibly arriving at some sort of conclusion. The furrow between his brows lessened, and his expression smoothened out.

“What should I make?” He never had someone so willing to see his power for a reason other than almost perverse curiosity or scientific research. _Guns, knives, swords, blades_ \- those were what he had always been told to transmute.

“It’s up to you,” came the reply. “Do what you will with it. This isn’t a test or an experiment,” Xavier gently reminded him.

John looked down, studying the paperweight in his palm. His mind briefly flashed to the solitary, sad-angry notes he heard from the room next door to his, played at the oddest hours, on the crispest mornings and the darkest nights. He absorbed the silver into his hand, pausing for an infinitesimal second before transmuting and reforming it into the delicate shape of a violin, made out of metal and his flesh and bone. Even he had to concede that it was pretty, if a little macabre.

“He plays beautifully,” Xavier said softly, words barely a murmur.

John nodded, not even bothering to wonder just who the _he_ Xavier referred to was. That much was obvious.

“Both of you make a good team.” John started from his reverie, glancing up at the wiser, older, wearier Mutant.

“You really think so?” He couldn’t help but ask any more than he could help being who he was.

Xavier nodded slowly, eyes far away. John wondered what he saw. “I had a friend like that, once - it was a long time ago. He was brilliant. Dazzling. Moody. Temperamental, and so damaged, but all the more stronger for it.”

“What happened?” John knew he shouldn’t pry, but Xavier had always been so open and sharing that he figured the older man wouldn’t begrudge him this slice of information.

“We -” John had the distinct impression that the Professor was weighing his words, selecting them with particular care. “We were too different. I should have seen it, I suppose.” Again, the distant and sorrowful look flickered across his face. “After all, I was the telepathic one between the two of us. He always told me I was amazingly blind for someone with my abilities.”

Xavier chuckled, regretful and sad. He held John’s gaze with his own. “He left. Such brilliance cannot be bottled and kept, any more than one can stop the earth from turning.”

At at loss for words, John merely murmured his assent. “I’m sorry,” he eventually managed to vocalise.

Xavier’s reply was measured and profound. “Don’t be. As I said, it was a long time ago. Life goes on.”

Filled with a vague idea of who this old friend of Xavier’s might have been as the Professor turned and whirred out of the library, John could only attempt to share his pain and deep sense of loss.

 _Love,_ John thought. What was it like to love someone so completely and entirely, that you could love them decades even after they betrayed you? How did you go on day after day, knowing that your love was and would never be returned? How could anyone endure that?

It was, he concluded, something worth thinking about. On a little chart he kept somewhere in the back of his mind, the level marking for the amount of respect John had for one Charles Francis Xavier rocketed skyward exponentially.

 

_____

 

 

It was well into the afternoon when Lestrade strode up to him in the hallway, thick case folder hefted under an arm.

“John,” the Supervisor beckoned, ushering him into a smaller office off to the side of the corridor. As Lestrade settled down behind the desk and set the folder down, John noted that he looked rather peeved.

“Problem?” John couldn’t help but ask.

“Yeah,” Lestrade huffed. “Understatement of the century, but yeah.”

Noting the measuring look Lestrade eyed him with, John’s suspicions were sadly confirmed. “Christ, no. Don’t tell me - Sherlock?”

“Right in one, mate. He’s been AWOL since this morning in the Division offices. We’ve gotten telepaths, psionics, psychics to scan the entire estate, but sweeps have come up with nothing.”

John frowned, wondering if Lestrade wasn’t just overreacting. “It’s not the first time he’s disappeared like this, is it? Are you sure he hasn’t just wandered off on some case?”

Lestrade shook his head. “He’s done this before, sure. But decisions - even impulsive, spur-of-the-moment ones - leave memory and thought traces. None of our psionics could pick up on any. It’s like he just...vanished. One minute he was in the lab, and then he wasn’t. And we don’t even know _how_ that’s even possible. If he was experimenting on something that would block ID attempts from any of the psychs, they’d still be able to pick up traces of that.”

“Have you gotten a team together?” John’s mind began to work overtime, calculating what supplies he would need, which military contacts he could use, what sort of weapons he could dredge off the black market. He wasn’t going to stand by while his partner was likely in danger.

“I’ve assigned a task force. Donovan, Anderson, Summers and Gray are on it. Your partnership with Sherlock is still very new, so I wasn’t sure...” Lestrade trailed off, looking uncertain.

John was incredulous. “The _fuck?_ You think I’m going to sit idly by while that idiotic empath runs off and gets himself killed?” He shook his head, disbelieving. “Of course I’m going, Lestrade.”

“Good, I was hoping you would. I’ve put this together for you. It’s Sherlock’s file - his abilities, known aliases, old and current haunts, past contacts. Considering that he could be anywhere, it’s really not much, but it’s all we’ve got for now.” Lestrade slid the thick folder across the desk towards John.

Deep in thought, John puzzled over a familiar name Lestrade had mentioned. “Gray,” he began. “That’s Jean Gray you’re talking about, right? The Class Six telepath and telekinetic. Nothing on Sherlock from her?”

Lestrade rubbed his temples with his forefingers. “That’s what’s so worrying. Ignoring the fact that Sherlock’s a Class Five - I mean, God, who the hell’s stupid enough to mess with a Class Five, anyway? - but if Gray can’t find him, then something’s really wrong about this.”

John worried his lip. “What sort of resources will I have?”

The Supervisor’s gaze grew sharp. “Standard issue. Mycroft’s managed to wrangle some heavier-duty stuff, but you know Xavier’s against violence, and it’s not like we’re a military arm of the government, so there’s only so much we can get.”

“Mycroft?” Puzzled, John wondered just how out of the loop he was.

Lestrade looked momentarily confused, before going on to elaborate. “Sherlock’s brother? He said you’ve met each other before.”

“I don’t -” Realisation hit John like an ill-timed lightning bolt. “Umbrella? Tall, reddish hair, bespoke suit, Italian leather loafers?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

John chuckled, shaking his head resignedly. “The Holmeses are odd ones, aren’t they?” Moving back to the more pressing issue, he flipped open the folder on the desk in front of him. “I’ll be out of here at fourteen-hundred. The best place to start would be London, so I’d be grateful if you could get someone to teleport me over. What’s the mission timeframe?”

“Three weeks to two months. Or really, however long it takes to find that sociopathic bastard.”

Grinning, John nodded. “Consider it done.”

Lestrade smiled in response, clapping a friendly hand over John’s shoulder as he departed the tiny office.

John focused on the folder in front of him, skimming through the basic personnel data sheet gracing the top of the pile.

 

**ENTRY 2938**

**CLASSIFIED**

Name: _Sherlock Sherrinford Alastair Vernet Dorian Holmes_

D.O.B.: _6 January 1980_

Age: _32_

Blood Type: _A+_

Known Aliases: _Stephen Hunsford, Sigerson Hawking_

Residence(s): _London, England: 221b Baker Street (current), 106 Montagu Street_

Education: _Eton College, Cambridge University (Sidney Sussex College)_

Abilities: _Empathy (Projection and Reception), Low-level Telepathy (Contact, Recency, and Proximity Only)_

Scale Rating: _5 (Mactaggert); 8.76 (Stryker)_

Notable Sibling(s): _Mycroft Holmes (see entry 5460)_

Additional Notes: _Certified genius; IQ 178, displays sociopathic inclinations, political affiliations unclear_

 

Flipping through the remaining contents, he noted that it consisted of surveillance photographs, correspondence material and assorted paperwork, none of which was going to help him find Sherlock any faster. He sighed. Well, if it came down to it the folder did at least provide him with more details on Sherlock than he currently knew. God knew how elusive that empath was.

Shutting the folder and making his way out of the office to the Debriefing Room, John worked on clamping down on the worry that threatened to build up in his chest. A grandfather clock in the hallway told him that it was twenty past three as he approached Division 221b’s offices.

With Donovan and Anderson out in the field, the Division quarters were markedly emptier. 221b had six members, and with one missing and two out searching, the room was almost eerily quiet. Returning the folder to Lestrade’s desk, John took the quickest route to the Debriefing Room, hoping that Molly would be in.

Molly was in, but unfortunately for John, so were about a dozen other trainees, clamouring for her attention in their haste to embark on whatever small assignment they had been tasked that day. He didn’t have time for this. Vaguely more acquainted with the Debriefing Room this time, he simply strode over to the X-suit racks and picked out the first one that seemed to be in his size.

Of course, in his hurry, he failed to hear Molly call, “John, not that one!” before he hurried away from the din of the Debriefing Room.

 

_____

 

 

John hated teleporting. The entire experience left him nauseated and queasy, as if the slightest movement would cause him to upchuck his last meal.

The teleporter - Kurt, this time - had taken him to the Mutant Relations Headquarters in Whitehall, where John had been promptly informed to contact Lestrade when he needed teleportation back before Kurt vanished with a faint _pop._ The Headquarters were _loud._ Mutant integration had steadily improved in the last decade, even if governments and ordinary people still treated them with a mix of wariness, caution and suspicion.

Despite being an Englishman through-and-through, he had never had reason to enter the Mutant Relations Headquarters during his time in London. Any Mutant-related paperwork, bills, and correspondence were conveniently conducted through mail or the internet - such was the efficiency of the modern age.

The iconic X-suit made him rather easy to identify amidst the hustle and bustle of the crowd around him, and many curious and impressed looks were thrown his way as he attempted to locate the Liaison’s Office. His status as one of the X-Men excluded him from security protocols of having his cheek swabbed, thumb printed and eyes scanned at every doorway he passed. Security was tight, and he couldn’t blame them. The number of Mutant-related hate crimes had climbed in recent years, and coupled with the United Nations Council of Mutant Rights Headquarters bombing last year, there was no such thing as _too much_ security.

The Liaison Officer was a harried looking man who was, rather unfortunately, going prematurely bald. _Paul Lamont_ , the plaque on his office door proclaimed, even as the man himself startled at the sight of John and rushed to the doorway to greet him.

“Watson, John Watson, yes?” He pumped John’s hand in an enthusiastic handshake. “We’ve been expecting you.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “You have?” He was unaware that the red tape and bureaucracy operated this efficiently - he had barely given notice to leave on this mission scant hours before, and he was certain that Lestrade hadn’t made any contact with the offices on the English side of the Atlantic.

“Oh, yes,” Lamont replied. “We’re grateful for your willingness to assist on this.” He directed John to a small meeting room in the centre of the Liaison Offices, glassed in on all sides. It was rather disconcerting - John compared it to being stuck in a fish tank. “What I don’t understand is why you’ve come here directly - not that we’re not happy to host you here, but I’d have thought you would want to head to the scene immediately.”

More than a little confused, John remained silent as the words sunk in. He was clearly missing a few pieces of the puzzle. “I’m sorry,” he began, “but what crime scene are you talking about? I’m here to deal with a missing Mutant case.”

It was Lamont’s turn to look puzzled. “No, no, that’s not what the email said. Here, look, let me show you.” He slid a sheet of paper across the conference table.

 

_9.48am_

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_Expect one John Hamish Watson between fourteen to fifteen hundred hours. Case no. 241. Ensure all necessary paperwork is in place._

 

“There’s no mention of the sender,” John murmured, perplexed. “And anyway, what is case 241?”

“Don’t worry, the sender checks out. We get tip-offs and strange requests from that IP address all the time. Case 241’s the Van Coon suicide,” Lamont supplied helpfully. “Seemed to be open-and-shut, but we’ve since been, ah, _instructed_ otherwise. Apparently it’s a murder. We’re conducting a reinvestigation now. Successful banker found dead in his flat. No signs of forced entry, simple gunshot wound to the head.”

“Mutant?” John queried.

“To our knowledge, no.”

“And you’re certain that it’s a murder? What’s so special about this, then? Why bring it up to the Mutants division?”

Lamont looked distinctly out-of-depth, floundering at the plethora of questions John lobbied in his direction. He rifled through the folder in front of him, searching for some information that might help.

Beside him, John wondered at the ineptitude of administrators, and was mortified for sounding almost mentally like Sherlock. A glance at a clock on a neighbouring wall told him that it approached three in the afternoon, and time was the one thing they _didn’t_ have if they were dealing with a kidnapping or hostage situation. Knowing Sherlock, either of the two were highly plausible.

“If you can’t give me any more than that, I’d like to move on to deal with the issue of a missing -”

The conference room door opened behind them, and both Lamont and John whirled to face the newcomer.

John was fairly sure he was gaping.

“Well, John,” came Sherlock, a faint line of displeasure marring his forehead. “What took you so long?”

 

 

**TBC**

 

 


	4. Dance Along (The Night is Young)

Despite the hair-raising, death-defying escapades that Sherlock Holmes usually managed to get himself into, nursing a bruised jaw was a rather novel experience. Over the years, he’d managed to accumulate a plethora of injuries, including, but not limited to:  
  


  * A fractured collar bone
  * Two broken fingers
  * 14.76 square centimetres of second-degree burns
  * Four fractured toes
  * Three concussions
  * Two shoulder dislocations
  * A clipped tibia
  * And now, a bruised jaw (and a split lip, really.)



  
It was, of course, entirely John’s fault. That, and John’s fist - which Sherlock remained convinced he did not need, and would never need again, such an intimate (and painful) introduction to.  
  
He didn’t see what the fuss was all about. True, he left the Xavier Institute without giving anyone notice. Yes, he disappeared without a trace. But wasn’t that the point? Briefly, he wondered if John was being intentionally dense.   
  
“Testing the psionic shields after informing everyone what I intended to do - John, are you even hearing yourself?” Sherlock had hoped - had prayed, almost, if he were the religious sort - that John would understand, but no, no, John was standing here, radiating palpable tension and anger and frustration and Sherlock could feel his own agitation clawing out of his skin. “The validity of the experiment would have been severely compromised! The observer bias, Hawthorne effect - the blind was _necessary_.“  
  
Clearly, John did not share his views. The roar in Sherlock’s mind of John’s _furyangerhurtdisappointment_ was a crashing torrent that threatened to overwhelm him. His right hand itched to reach out across the scant seven inches separating them to touch John’s skin, to change those horrible, repulsive, ugly emotions to _lovehappinesscontentmentthrill_.   
  
But that was wrong.   
  
Mummy had said it was wrong to make people feel things they didn’t feel on their own; Victor had screamed at Sherlock when he found out that he made Victor love him for a little while. It was _not on_. Still, it didn’t stop Sherlock from wanting to do it.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock, do you treat everyone around you like bloody science experiments? Are we all just lab rats on two legs to you? Did you ever consider that we would be worried? We had an entire team ready to search for you, you wanker. And it turns out, you’d just - just run off to carry out your own blasted experiment.”  
  
John sighed, and leaned back in one of the meeting room’s swivel chairs. Lamont had long since scampered off to afford the two Mutants a certain degree of privacy, which Sherlock supposed was good, because John was a very private person and would appreciate it, and so Sherlock found it easier to forgive Lamont for his administrative incompetence in his dealings with the man.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t sure what it meant, that whatever made John happy made Sherlock less apathetic or annoyed towards it too. He had only known John for three days (bordering on four); he found John sexually arousing and intellectually stimulating, he was fascinated by John and his paradoxes and contradictions. Sherlock flexed his right hand once, encased within soft calf-leather gloves.  
  
“It wasn’t just an experiment,” he clarified slowly, trying to bring the roar in his head to a manageable level, to allow John to follow, to understand, because Sherlock had never wanted someone to understand so much before. “I had to see the Van Coon crime scene for myself. It’s related to the Hope case, and the Mutant poison. Van Coon didn’t commit suicide - he was murdered. In all likelihood, he was smuggling the poison into Britain, although I don’t have concrete proof of that yet.”  
  
Sherlock paused, long enough to dart a glance at John’s face, to catalogue his wariness. He felt around for John’s emotions, which had since simmered down to a churning hurtfrustrationexcitement. He tried to quell the small burst of triumph that exploded low in his gut. For the first time in his life, he was making someone better, making someone see, and it was all through words, which had only ever failed him, because how do you explain the million things you see at once, the screaming that scores through your mind in your every waking moment?  
  
“Right,” John exhaled, the word drawn out and tired. “Okay. So you figured out that Van Coon was tied to Hope’s Mutant poison, and you didn’t think to let me know before you dashed off to investigate?”   
  
John let out another breath, this time quieter, and somehow heavier. “I know we’ve only worked together for three days, and I’m not flashy or brilliant like you are, but we’re partners, Sherlock, and maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it - it does to me. It means we’re in this together, and that whenever you bugger off to some random place because of some insane deduction you have, I come along too.”  
  
The air around them was coloured with John’s resignationacceptancehope, and suddenly Sherlock found it hard to breathe. Partners, he thought. Partners. He had never been anyone’s, well, anything before.   
  
“If you’re so inclined,” he acquiesced, response slightly stiff in his emotional confusion. It wasn’t capitulation, he assured himself. He was merely ceding a battle, not losing a war. John relaxed minimally, seemingly appeased by Sherlock’s agreement on this matter.   
  
“We need to scope out Van Coon’s workplace,” Sherlock resumed. “There were reports of some sort of threat being made in the week before his death, here -” He pulled out his phone, a sleek and thin device of the Institute’s design.   
  
With several quick flicks of his fingers, he pulled up a photograph of a vandalised painting that featured a fluorescent yellow line slashed through the unfortunate subject’s eyes. “The Scotland Yard, being as incompetent as it is, was unable to discern the meaning or intention behind it.”  
  
“Mmm.” John studied the photograph on the screen, even as he shot Sherlock a reproving look for his jibe at the Yard. Sherlock ignored him. John sighed, and continued. “So where is this, then? From your description I’d wager that Van Coon suicide was sometime last week, so we’d best get to his office as soon as we can.”  
  
“Canary Wharf, home of the white-collar, cubicle-chained professionals.” Sherlock couldn’t keep the disdain from colouring his tone. He had little respect for office rats.  
  
Sherlock inhaled sharply as he pushed away from the meeting table, standing to stride out the door. There was a case waiting to be solved, a mystery waiting to be unravelled. John was - John was a confusion, an anomalous figure that had to be put aside and studied at a later date.   
  
“Come, John,” he called, pulling up the empathic shields of his suit and mind.

 

 

 

 

_____

 

 

 

 

 

 

So maybe John deliberately reinforced the bones in his knuckles a little before he socked Sherlock in the jaw. He remained convinced he was perfectly justified in doing so, though. And if he felt a twinge of guilt whenever he caught sight of the purpling bruise blossoming on Sherlock’s jaw, well - he was a doctor, it was only natural for him to dislike seeing people hurt. It had nothing to do with the fact that Sherlock tended to throw him for a loop. Nothing at all.  
  
They weaved through the crowd as they made their way out of the Mutant Relations Headquarters, drawing a fair bit of glances in their easily identifiable X-suits. Found him, he thought, holding the words up in his mind’s eye as he tapped in left wrist twice. The words appeared briefly on his skin before fading out as the message was sent to Lestrade.   
  
The reply was almost instantaneous. _Thank god, it read. Mycroft was ready to mobilise MI6 and the SAS_. He chuckled a little as the reply faded away.  
  
John could tell that the crowd was getting to Sherlock - his face had become even more shuttered than usual, grey eyes hard and flinty. The density of the crowd made it hard to avoid physical contact, and John noted the way Sherlock’s jaw tensed and clenched whenever a careless accidental brush touched him.   
  
John wasn’t immune to the roar and sheer numbers of the crowd either; his suit felt itchy and tight, as if it were sandpaper crawling and chafing his body. A small part of his mind puzzled over this, wondering why this suit differed so greatly from the flexible and infinitely comfortable one he wore on the Hope mission three days ago. The greater part dismissed this thought, too caught up in Sherlock’s obvious discomfort.  
  
“Hey,” he called softly, drawing up a hand and placing it lightly on Sherlock’s forearm. They didn’t stop walking, but John caught the almost imperceptible hitch in Sherlock’s step. “Are you alright?”  
  
Sherlock didn’t look at him, but jerked out a curt nod in reply. None too appeased, but knowing that pressing further would yield nothing, John quieted, and gently kept his hand on Sherlock’s forearm until they made it out of the building.  
  
Looking around the busy street, John attempted to figure out the best route to Canary Wharf as Sherlock regained his bearings. When he turned back to Sherlock, his gaze was immediately drawn to where Sherlock’s was fixed on - he had yet to remove his hand from Sherlock’s arm. Flushing, and a little confused by the expression that had flitted across Sherlock’s face, John pulled it away.  
  
They stood in the middle of the pavement for several long beats. “You’re projecting, you know,” Sherlock eventually said, brow furrowing and eyes searching.  
  
John startled. “What are -”  
  
“I’ve deactivated the amplifiers and ampli-receptors on my suit, which means I should be unable to feel your emotions so singularly unless I concentrate. But right now, at this very moment, I know you’re feeling tense, slightly irritated, faintly aroused and vaguely tired.”  
  
Sherlock studied John’s face, and John let his expression sharpen a little, let his lips curl into a tiny smirk. “So maybe I am projecting,” he responded. “Is this my power, then? You figured it all out yet?”  
  
The look Sherlock shot him in reply was scathing. “Don’t insult me, John. You’re no psychic or psionic, and your powers have absolutely no relation to the mind. Which begs the question as to why you’re projecting.”  
  
John grinned a little at Sherlock’s miffed look, even as he stuck his hand out to flag down a passing cab. “Well, it was worth a shot. And I have no bloody clue -”  
  
“Ah,” came Sherlock, eyes narrowed and focused on John’s arm, before his gaze darted all over John’s frame in a rather disturbing manner. John found himself wondering if this was what it felt like to be a specimen in a lab.   
  
“Your suit,” Sherlock surmised, scrutiny over. “I don’t know how I could have missed it. Elementary, really. The fabric,” he indicated, pinching the material of the suit on John’s arm as he inspected it further, “isn’t the standard  breathable nylon-leather blend Molly uses for X-suits. It’s a custom psionic blend, along the same lines as the material used to make mine, but -” Sherlock frowned, “- it somehow allows you to project.”  
  
A little put-out, John nudged Sherlock’s hand away from where it was still poking at the fabric on his arm, irrationally annoyed at the gaggle of recruits that had prevented him from getting a standard X-suit from Molly.   
  
A cab drew up to the curb in front of them, and they both clambered into it. Canary Wharf, he told the driver, and they pulled away towards their destination.  
  
“You’re irritated by this,” Sherlock pronounced, waving a disparaging hand in response to John’s look that clearly communicated that their conversation was not one he wanted to pursue. “Are you sure you have no faint trace of psionic or psychic abilities? Anyone in your family with those powers? Any slight sense of precognition, empathy?”  
  
John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock must have observed (so blind, John, you see but you don’t observe) something from his expression because he merely steamrolled on. “No, no, of course not. You’re obviously the only Mutant in your family, from the less-than-tactful way your parents handled your abilities.”  
  
From his seat at the back, John caught a glimpse of their driver’s wary look, and sighed internally. Just their luck to get a vaguely anti-Mutant cabbie, and just his luck to get an intrusive, prying partner. He hates his luck.  
  
“Look, Sherlock,” he sighed. “I don’t know why I’m projecting, and I don’t see why it’s such an issue. It’s not like anyone besides you is able to tell, so why don’t we drop it?”  
  
Sherlock looked like a cat choking on a hairball. “ _Not an issue?_ John, I’m not the one practically yelling and shoving my emotions in someone else’s face. You’re distracting.”  
  
John was on the verging of retorting when Sherlock’s words struck him. “Wait - does this mean that you can’t feel anyone else? Right now, I - I’m blocking them out or something?”  
  
“Or something,” Sherlock mimicked, pouting and petulant. He rolled his eyes. “I can still feel other people - class five, John, I’m class five. But they’re just...muted. Quieter. Like everyone’s been dialled back.”  
  
“Right,” John murmured. “Muted. Got it. Sorry, I think.”  
  
Sherlock grunted in reply, staring out the window, mind likely already off on some super-speed tangent about their case. If John’s senses hadn’t been quite so sharpened by his service with the RAMC, he might have missed the quiet mutter from the taller man.  
  
“Don’t be.” John caught the muttered response, and couldn’t suppress the flash of a smile that flitted across his face and warmed his heart.

 

 

 

 

_____

 

 

 

 

 

“Ah, Sherlock, fancy seeing you here,” said the smugly suited man that approached them from behind his sprawling desk once a harried secretary ushered them into his cushy office. “It’s been what, six years?”  
  
“Seven,” Sherlock gritted out stiffly, before turning to John, who had been awkwardly watching the stilted greetings. “John, this is Sebastian Wilkes.”  
  
“Oh - uh, right. Nice to meet you.” John shook Wilkes’s proffered hand, even as he wondered at Sherlock’s disjointed and abrupt introduction.   
  
Wilkes frowned down at John once their handshake broke, pursing his lips and darting a glance at Sherlock. “So you’re a shielder, then?” He directed the question at John.  
  
The bluntness of the question rankled. It was considered exceedingly impolite to interrogate someone about their abilities, and John internally balked in distaste for the man.   
  
Wilkes, he supposed, was the sort of playground bully that like to put others down and write others off just because he could. Social etiquette with those he considered his inferiors was clearly something he did not believe in. John had met more than enough men like that in Army Command to last a lifetime.  
  
“No,” he replied coolly, refusing to elaborate and meeting Wilkes’s gaze head on. It was immensely satisfying when Wilkes broke the stare first. Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed the intrigued look Sherlock shot him.  
  
“Huh,” came Wilkes’s reply. “Funny how I can’t sense your emotions.”   
  
Before John could come up with a reply that would get Wilkes off his back, Sherlock butt in. “Sebastian’s a low-level empath,” he explained, and John smirked a little at the way Sherlock paused ever-so-slightly before the words _low-level_ , a mite insulting in his brief hesitation.   
  
“So is emotion-blocking some sort of new-fangled feature of your - ” Wilkes waved a vague and condescending hand at the two of them, “ - X-men suits or something?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock murmured in response, eyes alight on John’s with fascination and curiosity, like he had discovered a brilliant new function on an otherwise boring toy. “ ‘Or something’, maybe,” he continued before visibly breaking off that train of thought and settling back to the case at hand, turning away from John.  
  
The change in Sherlock into case-mode was palpable; he focused on the details to complete exclusion of his surroundings and those around him, and his mind was tangibly elsewhere, caught up in the lines of the webs of why, when, where, who, and how. It was a beautiful thing to watch.  
  
“Let’s get to it then,” John broke in, disliking having to stay in Wilkes’s presence any more than was absolutely necessary.

 

 

 

 

_____

 

 

 

 

 

“You didn’t think to tell me that Van Coon worked for Sebastian?” Sherlock hissed, elbowing his way out of the bland and standard chrome-and-steel building that housed the bank Van Coon had worked at.  
  
They’d only been partners for bordering on four days, and John had already gotten the impression that Sherlock was the sort of intensely private person that liked to dissect everyone else’s histories while keeping his own cards close to his chest.   
  
“I thought you knew,” John pointed out. “It was in the case file, after all.”  
  
“I don’t read case files,” came the sneered reply, voice dripping with contempt. “It’s an insult to the term to call what the Yard gathers and places in there information. It’s wrong. It’s _garbage_.”  
  
John shrugged, valiantly attempting to get a grip on his rising annoyance. “Well, then you can hardly blame me for not informing you of Sebastian, can you? It’s not like I even knew that the both of you knew each other. Who’s that tosser, anyway?”  
  
It was almost imperceptible, but John hadn’t survived two tours in Afghanistan by being unobservant. Sherlock minutely stiffened, a sharp jerk in his movements that flowed away to his usual vaguely feline grace as he assimilated and controlled his response.  
  
Much later, years later, when their partnership has solidified into something rock-hard and unshakeable, and their relationship has evolved into becoming everything, John will look back as he thinks about them both, and he will find that this was the moment when he fully cast aside all niggling doubts about Sherlock Holmes and thought: no, he has feelings, he feels, maybe - maybe even stronger and deeper than any of us.   
  
Sherlock Holmes, it will occur to him then, is lonely.  
  
But that is all in the future, and nobody has ever accused John Watson of living in the what-might-happens and later-down-the-roads.   
  
The guarded look in Sherlock’s eyes failed to recede even as his slight flinch faded. “Sebastian is an old school mate,” he eventually allowed. “He is of no concern to the case, and therefore none of yours.”  
  
Accepting the snarked rebuke for what it was, John nodded as they fell silent and boarded a hailed cab to their lodgings for the night. And even if he did remain quiet, he was fully certain that the sentiment of his thoughts - like hell it isn’t any of my business - made itself well-known to Sherlock, if the downturned corners of his lips were any indication.  
  
“Right,” John ceded, putting aside but in no way forgetting the point. “So what’s this about him not sensing my emotions if he’s an empath? I thought you said this suit was a custom psionic blend.”  
  
The cab rolled to a stop in front of 221 Baker Street, and John startled even as his mind concluded that he should have expected this. 221b Baker Street, current residence, he recalls from Sherlock’s file. He should have known that the Institute wouldn’t fund hotel rooms when Sherlock had a perfectly adequate and functional apartment in London.  
  
“Hand me your X-suit once you change out of it,” Sherlock ordered, ducking out of the cab and leaving John to settle the fare.  
  
Sighing as he paid the cabbie, John frowned as he clambered out. Sherlock had already knocked, and from John’s vantage point on the sidewalk, was reluctantly yielding to the fussing and mothering of the elderly lady who had opened the door.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question,” he mumbled as he drew up next to Sherlock, keeping his voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes in reply, proceeding in continuing to fail to provide an answer.  
  
“John, this is Mrs. Hudson, my landlady,” Sherlock introduced impatiently.  
  
“So this is John,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, sending him a not-so-secretive wink even as she led them in and up the stairs. “I’ve prepared the bedroom upstairs for you...if you’ll be needing it, of course.” She tittered, beaming conspiratorially at Sherlock.  
  
John sputtered. “Of course we’ll be needing two,” he choked, sending a hasty glance at Sherlock.  
  
“Oh, no worries, dearie, we get all sorts around here!” Mrs. Hudson patted his hand soothingly. “Mrs. Turner’s even got married ones,” she confided in a whisper, eyes crinkling merrily.  
  
They drew up onto the first floor landing. Slightly ahead, Sherlock huffed. “Are we done with the pleasantries now? Can we move on to something useful?”  
  
John wanted to bury his face in his hands at Sherlock’s rudeness. “ _Sherlock -_ “ he began to hiss, but Mrs. Hudson cut him off with a giggle.  
  
“Don’t worry, boys, I’ll leave you two alone now. Us old folk should know better than to stand in the way of young love!” She turned to Sherlock, finger raised threateningly. “Now, you, young man, you treat your John well, you hear me? None of your nonsense. John’s a good man.”  
  
John was certain there was no way his face could turn redder than it was then. Mrs. Hudson sent them both one last smile before patting their cheeks and trotting down the stairs.  
  
Sherlock proceeded to ignore him as he swept into the living room on the landing, scattering errant sheets of paper and random detritus in his wake.  
  
Excepting the clutter and general chaos, John could see the appeal of the flat. “Nice place,” he called out to Sherlock, who had disappeared into the kitchen to tinker with some dubiously bubbling chemicals. “I can see you’ve just moved in, but once you sort everything out it’ll be a really nice place.”  
  
He didn’t expect Sherlock’s head to jerk up and swivel to face him. He certainly didn’t expect what almost seemed to be embarrassment and nervousness to flit across the empath’s features.  
  
Sherlock set down the conical flask and pipette in his hands, picking up loose sheets of junk and shifting piles of books as he meandered back into the living room.  
  
“I can - ” Sherlock poked at something furry, before shoving it into the bowels of a half-empty box nearby, “I can always tidy it up a little.” He shoved a stack of books off a pinstriped armchair, gesturing to it with a sweeping hand. “You can, ah, you can have that - ”  
  
Throughout Sherlock’s ramblings, John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Sherlock was nervous, and it was adorable.   
  
Sherlock broke off, and narrowed his eyes at John. “You’re amused,” he stated bluntly, and his previously open expression immediately blanked and shuttered.  
  
“No, I’m not laughing at you,” John hastened to correct, and found his arms coming up in an aborted gesture to placate the man by providing a reassuring pat of some sort. Blushing, he glanced at Sherlock, and was relieved to find that the other Mutant had failed to notice his actions, instead returning to the chemistry set.  
  
“I wasn’t,” he reiterated, even as Sherlock continued to ignore him, pipetting a violently green liquid into a beaker over a bunsen burner. From his vantage point slightly outside of the kitchen entrance, he could see Sherlock’s clenched jaw, and could make out his jerky, angry movements.  
  
“No one’s ever been bothered about what I thought about their flat,” he tried again, desperate to regain the flustered, vaguely boyish, so-very-human Sherlock of before. He had a feeling that few people had the chance to glimpse that side of Sherlock, and mentally berated himself for taking it so lightly.  
  
Sherlock, of course, proceeded in persisting to ignore him.  
  
“Will you just _listen_ \- ” John hissed, impatient and annoyed at having his apology attempts repeatedly brushed off, hand darting out to snare Sherlock’s wrist.  
  
Sherlock’s reaction was completely unexpected, especially given that this was hardly the first time John had touched him, and this wasn’t even skin-to-skin contact.  
  
“Don’t,” he seethed, hands bunching into fists on the granite countertop. He straightened from where he had been bending to measure the liquids and monitor his experiment, and flicked the bunsen burner off in a stilted, viciously leashed motion.   
  
“Who,” Sherlock continued, rounding on John, who was standing stock-still at the kitchen entrance, too shocked by Sherlock’s completely unpredicted reaction. “Just who do you think you are? You are _ordinary_. Dull. Boring. You are not worth my time, so what gives you the impression that you can touch me whenever you want?”  
  
Sherlock stepped closer, looming over John, his face flush with rage. “You mean _nothing_. You are no one - no one special. You, an invalided ex-Army doctor, so painfully ordinary that I could go out onto the street and find a dozen others just like you.”  
  
Sherlock’s breathing grew harsher. “I see the way you look at me, when you think I’m not watching - like I’m, I’m someone to be saved, someone you can save, like you think I’m good and as morally inclined as the next person, and you don’t get to look at me like that. Just - ”  
  
He slammed a fist onto the counter, causing a glass stirring rod to roll of the edge and shatter on the floor. John could see the veins in Sherlock’s hand - fists clenched, muscles tensed, body entirely wound up in anger and fury and whatever had triggered this outburst.  
  
Stunned speechless, John was hyper-aware of the moments of utter silence that descended upon them following Sherlock’s tirade. The water in the pipes from the apartment next door sounded louder than a roaring tsunami. The traffic outside was a crescendo of noise.  
  
And above all, he could feel the way Sherlock’s fury licked and snapped in the room around them, white-hot and incendiary. Sherlock was projecting, and somehow, John’s X-suit was preventing him from receiving the emotion even as it allowed Sherlock to read him better.  
  
“Hey, hey,” he murmured, keeping his voice quiet and pitched low. Vaguely, he recalled several of his childhood years spent on his grandparent’s farm, befriending skittish animals.   
  
He held his hands up, palms facing outwards, projecting as much calm and comfort as he could, even as Sherlock’s comments had cut and hurt.  
  
When some of the tension in Sherlock’s back bled out, John spoke again. “This isn’t just about me laughing at you, is it, Sherlock?”   
  
He watched the taller man’s face, cataloguing the way his jaw was still clenched, and breathing was still laboured.  
  
“It’s more than that,” John surmised, still moderating his volume and pitch. “It’s the suit, isn’t it?”  
  
“Brilliant deduction, John,” Sherlock sniped, lips pulled back in a sneer. “Do you want my job now?” The words were harsh, but somehow, somehow, John knew that it was more offensive defence than anything else. He had seen Sherlock at his most vitriolic; this had nothing on it.  
  
“Come on,” he prodded. “Tell me. What’s with the suit that’s got you on such an edge?”  
  
Aware that Sherlock had tensed up again, John subtly retreated, turning away to rifle through the kitchen cabinets for cleaning equipment and bin bags to clear the shattered remains of the stirring rod. Finding a pair of thick rubber gloves in a drawer, he snapped them on and made do with a discarded Tesco bag.  
  
Sherlock began to speak just as John crouched down to gingerly pick up the glass shards. “Did you know that Mrs. Hudson’s a mild empath?” he broke out, the statement so sudden and unprompted that it was practically a non sequitur.   
  
John cocked his head in puzzlement, but continued his cleaning in silence, waiting to see where Sherlock would take this.  
  
“She is,” Sherlock reaffirmed, sounding strangely nervous for all the arrogance and self-importance that John was well aware he draped around himself like that swooping black coat of his.  
  
“She couldn’t get a read on your emotions,” he continues, sounding more confident. “The brief frown between her brows when you greeted her, the twitch of her fingers in your direction as we ascended the stairs. You’re blank to her. And Sebastian, earlier.”   
  
Sherlock paused, snapping out of his physical stillness and back to his characteristic flurry of fast-as-light darts and movements, plucking a spare stirring rod from the recesses of an adjacent drawer and flicking the gas tap of the bunsen burner back on, clicking the lighter and watching it burst into flame.  
  
“Just like Mrs. Hudson, Sebastian couldn’t read you. I know for a fact that he is a Class Three, just as I know for a fact that you don’t have Class Three shielding capabilities. He can’t read you, and neither can Mrs. Hudson. I, however, can.”  
  
John had absolutely no clue where Sherlock was going with this. “Look, Sherlock, if you want me to go grab a new X-suit or get someone to send one over, just tell me, I don’t mind. It isn’t even that big of a deal, I’m sure suits get torn or damaged and send back all the time. I don’t see how - ”  
  
“Exactly,” Sherlock snapped, rejoinder diamond-hard and cutting. “You don’t _see_ , you don’t observe, _God!_ ” He whirled in rage to face John fully.   
  
John watched him take several deep breaths in a visible effort to calm himself down. Just as Sherlock inhaled and opened his mouth to continue his explanation, Lestrade strode into the living room, effectively shattering their moment of whatever the hell that was.  
  
“You utterly insane sociopathic wanker - what the bloody hell were you thinking?”  
  
Sherlock ignored the yelled statement, turning away from John to sneer at Donovan and Anderson as they drew level to the landing.  For a brief second, John thought he felt Sherlock’s overwhelming relief, like a cold wash that was just shy of unpleasant, bracingly chilly, but not terrible either. No one else around seemed to notice it, though, so John merely chalked it up to him over-reading the situation.  
  
The two groups stood awkwardly in the wake of Lestrade’s anger and Sherlock’s non-response. Sherlock cocked his head at the new arrivals, eyes roaming from top to toe to collar to sleeves to nails. “Oh, wonderful, John, Lestrade’s got another dead body - it’s at the National Gallery.”   
  
Lestrade sputtered just as Donovan rolled her eyes. “How’d you even - ” “ - oh great, Freak’s at it again - ”  
  
Sherlock waved a hand of dismissal, striding to sofa to retrieve his discarded scarf and moving to unhook his coat from where it was hanging next to the door. “It’s raining across London, but you haven’t travelled far, so it was within Zone One. The piece of confetti stuck to Anderson’s shoe - good job on that, by the way - came from the Olympic bid celebrations, which were where? Trafalgar Square. Donovan and Anderson, as incompetent as they are, have been able to prevent the news of the death from leaking to the press so far, so the body can’t be directly out in Trafalgar Square. Lestrade smells like musty paint, and his nails are caked with flour from the gloves they made him wear to inspect where the body must have hit some of the paintings - the type of flour is different from the standard police-issue ones. Ergo, the body’s at the National Gallery.”  
  
“ _Brilliant,”_ John breathed, thrilled by the genius of his partner.   
  
Sherlock’s eyes darted to land on him. “Are you aware that you said that out loud?”  
  
John flushed. “Yeah, well, I can stop if you’d like.”  
  
Turning away from him, Sherlock opened the door to the landing, calling out behind him as he moved out. “No, it’s - ah - it’s fine. Do hurry, John, a dead body’s waiting.”  
  
Sighing as he crossed the room to exit after Sherlock, John found himself halted by a hand to his wrist, Lestrade staring intently at the suit he was wearing.  
  
“That’s Molly experimental suit,” he began. “The one with the receptive-projective empathic-telepathic fibres for - ” he broke off, cussing loudly and letting John’s arm go. _“Fuck,”_ Lestrade hissed, seemingly shocked, before his expression melted away into a slow grin. “Has Sherlock told you?”  
  
“Told me what?” John asked, half-terrified that Sherlock was using him as a human guinea pig for another of his wild experiments.  
  
Lestrade looked away awkwardly. “Ah - well - that is, maybe you and Sherlock should - ”  
  
Donovan snorted from behind him. “What he doesn’t have the balls to say, John, is that you have crap luck. You’re Sherlock’s bond mate, or soul mate, or whatever telepathic freaks call it. Basically, you’re doomed to a lifetime of Sherlock Holmes.”

 

 

**TBC**

 


End file.
